A nobler shield for us, a deeper sky; But even to us who know how far away Those constellations burn, the wonder bides That each vast sun can speed through the abyss Age after age more swiftly than an eagle, Each on its different road, alone like ours With its own satellites; yet, since Homer sang, Their aspect has not altered! All their flight Has not yet changed the old pattern of the Wain. The sword-belt of Orion is not sundered. Nor has one fugitive splendour broken yet From Cassiopeia's throne. A thousand years Are but as yesterday, even unto these. How shall men doubt His empery over time Whose dwelling is a deep so absolute That we can only find Him in our souls. For there, despite Copernicus, each may find The centre of all things. There He lives and reigns. There infinite distance into nearness grows, And infinite majesty stoops to dust again; All things in little, infinite love in man . . . Oh, beating wings, descend to earth once more, And hear, reborn, the desert singer's cry: _When I consider the heavens, the work of Thy fingers, The sun and the moon and the stars which Thou hast ordained, Though man be as dust I know Thou art mindful of him; And, through Thy law, Thy light still visiteth him._ THE END